The Frenchman's Darling

The rose may sparkle in the morn,
And blush and brighten on its thorn;
The gaudy tulip proudly spread
Its glories o'er the enamelled bed;
The iris imitate the bow,
That sunbeams on a tempest throw;
All these may shine around, — but yet
I love my darling mignonette.

I ask no deep-encrimsoned flower
From India's never-fading bower;
No lotus, where it closely weaves
The Ganges with its azure leaves;
I ask no pensive bud of woe,
That gives the night its wreath of snow;
All these may have a charm, — but yet
Thy charm is more, sweet mignonette.

No lily, that with gold-specked urn
Seems like a chandelier to burn,
Where wide Savanna's waters flow
Beneath a forest bower of snow;
No palm with bending tufts of fire,
No spiced vanilla, I desire;
These you may fondly twine, — but yet
I fondlier twine my mignonette.

The Scot may love his thistle-down,
Its prickly leaves, and purple crown;
And Erin on her shamrock smile,
The beauty of her emerald isle;

The holly twine its glossy braid,
A starry wreath for Albion's head:
We love the modest violette ,
And dearer still the mignonette
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.